


Without a Smile

by CrossoverQueen



Category: Courage the Cowardly Dog, Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25741063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossoverQueen/pseuds/CrossoverQueen
Summary: The Night Vale news is no laughing matter, and there's only room in town for one announcer. But when a certain Radio Demon shows up unannounced, Cecil is thrown into a battle of good-versus-evil for the town's soul. Literally.In order to win, he'll have to rely on his courage and skills. But most of all, he'll need help from several new allies.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Apple Peelers

Hello, dear listener. Or should I say, dear reader. This is not a medium to which I am accustomed, and I hope you’ll bear with me as I attempt to navigate it. My usual equipment is currently unusable, but it would be a disservice to all Night Vale residents if I did not report on our town’s latest occurrences. 

Today, Old Woman Josie died. Well, that’s the rumor she spread, but do not fret, dear listener. Reader. Old Woman Josie is alive and well, surrounded by her angel-friends, all of whom have told her it is not yet her time. But Old Woman Josie insists that she did, in fact, die, when a malfunctioning apple peeler caused the entire world to blink in and out of existence. That apple peeler peeled through the fabric of reality itself, rendering it uninhabitable. We are dead, she insists, and everything currently happening is but our brains flashing on and off in our final moments. But I would not fret too badly, as she is probably wrong. I am about 73% certain, in fact. I don’t believe Old Woman Josie even owns an apple peeler, nor has ever eaten an apple.

A strange portal has appeared in Margie Suitle’s belly button. We have been told that this portal simply leads to another portal in Sad Argo Argo’s left foot. In turn, Sad Argo Argo’s portal leads to a portal in the wall of the Nothing Ever Happened at this Location Mausoleum. We are warning all listeners, and readers, to avoid these portals, as we have yet to test where the portal in the wall of the Nothing Ever Happened at this Location Mausoleum leads.

Our sponsors would like you to know that we are very interested in where the portal in the wall of the Nothing Ever Happened at this Location Mausoleum leads. For the intrepid listener, and reader, the mayor is offering a reward for anyone who can provide this information. The reward will be a new birthday of your choosing. April 19th, March 8th, February 31st—no birthday is off limits, not if you jump through the portal in the wall of the Nothing Ever Happened at this Location Mausoleum and share your findings. If you’re able to return, of course. 

As for the rest of our sponsors…

…Hmm.

…How strange.

It seems that our written broadcast only has a single sponsor. Perhaps this written medium is not as sponsor-friendly as our radio version. Well, no matter, we will continue forward. 

And now, the weather.  
…  
…  
…Oh. It would appear that the weather does not work through this medium, either. I am uncertain why the weather would fail to appear simply because the medium has changed, though to be transparent, I am uncertain how the weather broadcast usually works. It simply turns on and off on its own. Half the time, I am uncertain whether the day even has any weather.

Reader, I’m terribly sorry. This will certainly be quite an adjustment. Hopefully, the situation regarding our studio doesn’t last too long. You see, I would much prefer speaking to you from the comfort of my microphone, not a typewriter, but I am sad to say that my equipment is no longer mine. 

Today marked an unfortunate incident at the station. I will try to go into as great of detail as possible, though our network hosts don’t want us mentioning it. At least, I believe this is so. It is hard to say, since they never appear in person, and our only means of communication remains shouting through their office door. But it behooves me to tell you, dear listener—…reader—how I’ve been reduced to this sorry state. Perhaps you can lend advice, a shoulder to cry on. Or better yet, a studio from which I can report. 

If you’ve been listening to my broadcasts—which you should be—you likely remember the hooded figure who sometimes shows up in our station. Previously, he, or she, gave quite the delightful interview, which consisted entirely of radio static. 

Earlier this morning, that hooded figure returned. Or perhaps it was a different hooded figure. It is difficult to tell, with them wearing hoods. Regardless, within seconds of them entering the station, this hooded figure took off its hood, unveiling a creature with red ears, a monocle, and an infectious smile. Infectious like a disease that rots you from the inside out. Just looking at that smile, dear… reader, rendered me cold. It was as if every atom in my body froze on the spot, then somehow grew colder, and colder still. It is a coldness that will never thaw, not entirely. Not even the warmth of Carlos’s arms will fully warm me. 

In any case, this jovial fellow introduced himself as Alastor the Radio Demon. I introduced myself in turn, and he responded, “I know who you are, darling.” I was unsurprised to hear this, as I have made quite a name for myself in Night Vale. But I felt a bit embarrassed that I did not recognize him as well. And yet, I had the vaguest feeling that I knew him, perhaps in another station, another life. 

Pleasantries aside, Alastor walked to my recording booth. I did not tell him to do this, but I did not argue. His smile was wider, and dear reader, it frightened me. Attempting to stop this unhooded figure would be as pointless as trying to stop the insatiable appetite of a malignant apple peeler. 

Once we arrived at my booth, Alastor began playing with several dials. He tapped into my microphone and began speaking. I noticed that his voice had a static charge to it, much like my earlier interview with the hooded figure. But I couldn’t make out his words—it was as if he were purposely obscuring them.

The entire time he traversed my studio, that cold, cold smile remained.

As the Radio Demon disrupted my studio, I tried asking him several questions. Primarily, I wanted to know what a Radio Demon was, and if it had any relation to the TV Demons or Four-Armed Starfish Demons I’d grown up with. He did not appear to be listening, though. Instead, he made small noises to himself as he continued testing my equipment. But they weren’t happy noises—rather, I was reminded of an auctioneer appraising faulty goods before market. 

I like to think I’m a considerate host. I always show my guests the upmost respect and patience. But truth be told, dear reader, the Radio Demon’s apparent indifference toward me, his disdain toward my tools, made me angry. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than for him to leave. So blinded was I by anger, I was no longer even that curious regarding his possible relationship to Four-Armed Starfish Demons. In truth, it was a strange and unwarranted degree of anger, one that I do not yet have an answer for. 

Having time to reflect, I wonder…

I tried to find an intern to escort Alastor from the studio. But they were all on their seventh lunch break of the day; they’ve been taking these breaks more often, thanks to their union, which demanded safer working conditions after our last intern met his demise at the hands of a puddle of scented milk. That of course, is not relevant to this news. What is relevant is that Alastor tried to stop me. Still smiling, he asked, “Whatever could be the problem, dear boy?”

In no uncertain terms, I told him that he was the problem. I was used to guests wondering throughout my studio. I was accustomed to them ignoring my questions and taking over my report with news of their own. But never once had I felt the anger I felt right then. It was almost as if something else were affecting my emotions, boiling them, causing them to rise like mercury in a thermometer. 

Again, I wonder…

Alastor continued smiling. “Is that all?” he asked, as he reached into his jacket pocket. “Well, if you wish for me to depart, the solution is simple!” Removing his hand, he brandished a white piece of paper. I asked him what the paper was. “A contract, naturally.” 

A contract?

“Yes, all I’ll require is that you sign this contract. And once you do, I will be out of your hair!” A staccato of laughter followed his words, and I looked around, trying to understand where it came from.

Dear reader, as I scanned the room, my eyes returned to Alastor and the contract in his hand. There were lines of text. Dozens of them. Hundreds. And yet, I didn’t look it over. I didn’t hesitate. You would think I’d be well versed in contractual matters, after my continual contractual negotiations throughout the years. But it was that anger, that unwavering, inexplicable anger that caused me to make my profound, gravest mistake. 

Dear listener, I signed that contract. And in signing it, I signed away my studio. I signed away my station. And I’m afraid I might have signed away a few other things as well. 

And even now, I don’t fully understand. Even now, I wonder… what could have driven me to make this decision? To not even consider or question the repercussions?

I have but one thought, and it sends a shiver through my spine: there is a 73% chance that Old Woman Josie is wrong, which means there is a 27% possibility that she is right. And if she is right—if my brain is truly firing on and off, staving off the darkness, perhaps it no longer can make decisions with any degree of foresight. Perhaps it is prone to anger as it continues fighting. Or, perhaps it has simply come up with this entire charade to keep me entertained in my final moments. 

I must admit, I was lying about the apples. I have seen Old Woman Josie consume a Red Delicious a time or two. 

Whatever the answer, dear reader, I’m afraid to find out. And yet, I must return to the studio, if only to learn more of what I’ve agreed to and why. I shall continue to use this medium as best I can while I strive to understand what is happening. 

For now, dear reader, stay safe. Remember to read everything that passes your way, more than once, and to handle apple peelers responsibly.

Goodnight, Night Vale, goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on my other piece, don't worry! But I've recently really gotten into Night Vale and couldn't NOT write this piece. Plus I can't really call myself CrossoverQueen with just one crossover haha. Anyway, let me know what you think so far. This is the first piece in a while that I haven't fully outlined, so I'm just as excited (and nervous!) to see where it goes!


	2. Man's Best Friend

Dear reader. It pains me that I must once again reach you through this less-than-ideal medium. A smattering of words on a cold and indifferent screen cannot possibly convey all the news I wish to share. A letter might, perhaps, be better suited. After all, a letter allows one the time and space to truly consider each and every word, thus imbuing each sentence with the significance of a sonnet, each paragraph the rhythm and artistry of a string quartet.

I could also doodle calico cats in the margins. I bet that would really get your attention.

Sadly, as you know, such mechanisms as pens and paper are--and have always been--forbidden. As is, I am already breaking far too many rules to consider breaching such sacred and important legislation. I hesitate to even tell you of my latest affairs, dear reader, as I believe they will reflect poorly on me. But to fully understand my new situation, it is important that I reveal all.

I am currently in the Dog Park. The one which we are not supposed to look at, nor think of, nor even know about. Because the hooded figures often congregate here, I thought, hey, I have nothing better to do, might as well seek one out. My plan was to ask the hooded figure about the Radio Demon who has overtaken my studio, form a coalition, and take back what is rightfully mine. But listener. I mean, reader. It is simply baffling to behold. Ever since the Radio Demon descended on Night Vale, the Dog Park has been filled with _actual_ dogs. 

Can you imagine? How absurd! And yet, the dogs are as real as time is false.

As I type this message, I am currently petting a purple beagle. His eyes are alight with the type of puppy love we humans can only imagine--as if he understands all the responsibilities, hardships, and heartbreak that befall "man's best friend," yet wishes to devote and martyr himself toward those ends. And listener, as I continue to pet this puppy, I worry such a fate might very well befall him. For you see, there is something I've learned here at the Dog Park. Something that--

Oh. 

Hmm...

Ok then. It appears we have a traffic update. I only know this because a vortex appeared 6 or so inches above my head and spewed out this message, nearly frightening my poor four-legged companion into a frenzy. But he is ok now. In fact, he is utterly silent and still. Calm and serene as a river. As I continue to pet him, he is far too peaceful to even respond. 

Good boy, pup. Good boy.

And with that, traffic. 

... 

You grow up on the bayou with an unremarkable backstory. Unremarkable in the sense that no one will let you remark on it. You are loved by your mother, despised by your father, despised even more by a society that will forever see you as not belonging. You are a mix of backgrounds, cultures, identities. And to be more than one identity is to be stripped of all of them. 

As a child, you tinker with tools. You're not good with your hands, but you're good with your mind; your inventions may not always work, but they show a spirited desire to understand. Your mother encourages this hobby, but your father. Oh, your father. He doesn't break your creations so much as break your desire to create. One moment, you want nothing more than to be the next Joseph Swan. But this desire serves as your swan song, and you put your tinkering to rest, bruised in body, mind, and ego.

Quieting your creativity proves risky, as it only serves to make everything else louder. Your mind has a great many things to say, and you share these thoughts with your friends, all of whom are made of sticks, stuffing, or simply air. You spend hours out near the swamp, regaling these friends with stories, philosophical wonderings, and a great many truths to which you are yet immune. But like last time, your father finds out, and he makes quick work disposing of the rest of your childhood. He tells you, "This has to stop." He shouts this message, using not just his voice, not just his fists, but a piercing contempt strewn across every crevice of his face. It is the contempt he always wears whenever he sees, or hears, or even thinks of you. 

He tells you to stop crying. You take this to mean you should smile. 

Not for the first time, you wonder why your father is so opposed to your imagination. What is the harm in a lonely boy attempting to be less lonely? Later, you will realize that your father is an imaginative man himself. He knows what his imagination can create, and he fears what terrors you might imagine into reality. 

You're not sure who the first body belongs to. You find it accidentally. You were playing with a friend--another one of air and imagination, one your father had not yet snatched--when you stumbled across the corpse. 

A woman. Young and blonde. Somewhat similar to your mother. Her right arm was broken. Her left arm, gone. Her eyes weren't eyes, and yet

They see you.

The world runs cold. And then, you're moving. A straight line away--to where doesn't matter. You trip over branches. You run out of oxygen. You leave your friend of air and imagination, who disappears behind you. And yet, the eyes that aren't eyes trail close. You feel them on your neck, your back. Within you.

That was the first body. You were eleven. By the time you are twelve, you will discover your second. From there, the discoveries only continue to pile up, each more bloated and decayed than the last. And as you run; as you continue to find; as you deny the unassailable truth, you smile.

This has been "traffic."

...

...

...Readers, it appears that I have made a terrible mistake coming to the Dog Park. The vortex above me has dropped a new message, this one from... oh wow, Dana the intern. Hope you're doing well, Dana.

In this letter, which appears to be written in mustard on a fig newton, Dana has simply written, "Run." And reader, for Dana to take the time to write in mustard, which I know for a fact she does not care for, and to find a vortex through which to send this message, the warning must be severe indeed. Truthfully, I am unsurprised. As I was saying earlier, I've learned a few things since coming to the Dog Park, least of which--

Oh. Oh no, dear reader. 

The dogs. 

They are... looking at me. 

...

It has been so long since I've seen a dog in the Dog Park, I'd nearly forgotten that fig newtons are their natural enemy. And for me to be holding one in their presence-- 

...I'm going to carefully toss the newton toward them. Very, very carefully... 

...

Reader. You cannot tell but I am whispering. As I write this, I am saying every word aloud, but quietly, so that the dogs will not hear me. They seem distracted by the newton, but I know that they now view me as the enemy. I will not be learning anything new from them, nor the hooded figures, who remain absent. It is time for me to leave and to consider a different plan. 

Fortunately, this quiet, still beagle has not abandoned me. His loyalty is unparalleled, and he knows that I am not in cahoots with any breakfast treats. I will take him with me and try to make my way into the radio station once more. I'm sorry for the brevity of this transmission, but I hope to have more information for you soon. For now, I leave you with this:

Perhaps humans do not deserve dogs. Perhaps dogs do not deserve humans. Perhaps the idea of deserving anything is a lie we tell to enable ourselves, a lie built on the truth that, in the end, we all wish to be deserving of love. 

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's curious why some things contradict the actual podcast or aren't originally from there, I promise there's a reason :) Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!


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